


terrible flirting and even worse cardplaying

by ashkatom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Orphaner Dualscar is very bad at both seduction and cheating, and Sufferer is awful at realising that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	terrible flirting and even worse cardplaying

It’s rare you find a moment of peace with Dualscar. Psi is off with Handmaid doing very important things that mostly seem to involve sitting around and plaiting hair, though, and with your mutual partner gone for the time being, you’re both taking advantage of the time you have.

That’s kind of a sad way of putting it, considering that the world is probably ending. Whoops.

Nonetheless, you have a cushion fort, a bowl of grubcorn that you weren’t allowed to make in case you burned the ship down, a cape-blanket that is comfier than you want to admit, and a deck of cards that Dualscar stole from Mindfang. You can tell because it’s very blue.

“A seven?” Dualscar asks hopefully.

You shake your head. “Fish.”

“I know I am,” he says patiently, “halibut I was askin’ aboat a seven.”

You start laughing and choke on a bit of grubcorn, thus making yourself the smoothest troll in the universe. You manage to cough it up before Dualscar can pound you on the back, which is an excellent survival trait considering he could probably punch through your spine.

“You all right?” he asks, once you’ve regained the ability to breathe. When you nod, he shrugs. “So I was askin’ after a nine…”

“You were not!” You toss a piece of grubcorn at him for his dishonesty. “I distinctly remember you saying ‘sewen’.”

“Now you’re implyin’ that my accent is less than fuckin’ regal an’ callin’ me a liar.” Dualscar picks the piece of grubcorn out of his lap and eats it. “I am completely affronted, Suf, I reely am.”

“You’re right, that was way too far,” you agree and look at your hand. “What did you want again?”

“A four,” he says shamelessly.

“You’re not very good at this,” you inform him.

“An’ now you’re libelin’ me!” Dualscar throws his hands up in the air and knocks the blanket roof off your cushion fort.

“Slandering,” you say as you tug it back into place. “Libel is written.”

“All I wanted was a two an’ now I’m bein’ slandered by my matesprit,” he says into his cards. You get a queer smile-y feeling in your chest when he says matesprit and take a moment longer than you need to tug the blanket-roof back into place. “I fin it’s done, Suf.”

“I’m making sure it won’t fall down again if you knock it with your horns,” you say, and knot the corner in place. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you your six.” You turn back around only to see him peeking at your cards. “Hey!”

“There was a spider,” he says innocently. “It’s gone now.”

“And so are half my cards,” you point out.

He waves a hand. “Collateral damage. Quit bein’ a shore loser, Surf.”

“Nope.” You sit down, cross your legs and fold your arms. “Just gonna sit here and sulk. I was attached to those cards. We weathered your blatant number-grabbing together. I think they were starting to wax pale for me, to be honest.”

He leans forward and kisses you. Your eyes, traitors that they are, close of their own accord when he takes your face in his hands to pull you in. When you part, you take a moment to not be a wibbling pile of hormones, then say, “You’re trying to distract me from your egregious displays of unsportstrollship.”

He grins. “Is it workin’?”

You shake your head. “I’m too busy mourning the loss of my cards to be distracted by your base pirating ways.”

“That sands like a challenge,” Dualscar says, and pulls you onto his lap. The cape you’ve blanketed yourself in follows along and you have to do an awkward shuffle-rearrange to stop it from cutting off your foot. He wraps it back around your shoulders, taking a moment to run his thumb along the line of your neck. “My piratin’ ways cannot stand for this insalt.”

“Your pirating ways take everything as an insult.” You lean into his hand and close your eyes. “Last week your pirating ways took my distinct abundance of clothing as an insult.”

“It was preedy terrible.” He toys with the hair at the nape of your neck and all you can do is hope you’re not blushing already. What with your mutation, pailing was never a necessary part of life for you. You can count the number of pailing partners you’ve had on one hand and still have fingers left over, unlike every single other troll ever. “I will never undersand you landwellers an’ your attachment ta clothin’.”

“Says the man who parades around in a cape and purple armor.”

“I’m naut averse ta takin’ it off.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth and you open your eyes in surprise. He rests his forehead on yours. “Relax, Surf, I can feel you shakin’.”

“I am not!” you say, except you are. Because last time was the first time and you were sleepy and when you’re sleepy apparently your nerves are furiously curbstomped by your libido. But now you’re here and wide awake, Dualscar is seducing you with terrible flirting and even worse cardplaying, and all of your never let anyone know instincts are shrieking like something you don’t even have a fucking metaphor for because you’re too busy being distracted by Dualscar’s stupid proximity.

“An’ you’re talkin’ ta yourshellf in your head again,” he adds.

You free your arms from their caped prison and wrap them loosely around Dualscar. Anxiety crushes your chest and makes it hard for you to breathe, let alone talk. He must hear your breath hitching in his chest because his arms go around you just as you manage to bury your head in his shoulder and mutter something along the lines of ‘I am the worst matesprit.’

“Surf, my shoulder hasn’t mastered Alternian yet,” he says patiently.

You lift your head, grumble that you are the worst matesprit ever to sprit, and drop it again.

“There’s no shame in losin’ at cards.” Dualscar pats your head in what is objectively a pretty terrible pap, but is comforting nonetheless. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was cheatin’ a little.”

You reach up and put your hand over his face so he’ll stop talking. It doesn’t work.

“Did I do somefin wrong?” he asks.

You look up so quick you almost whack your head on his horn. “What? No! I’m just stupid!”

“I don’t know why you’re stupid,” he prods you. “You shoaled tell me, seein’ as I pity you so much I don’t fin it can get much worse.”

You are definitely blushing now. You can feel your blood burning in your cheeks, hot enough to make you uncomfortable, and you wish you hadn’t fell out of the habit of wearing a cloak. You make up for it by completely refusing to make eye contact and praying to whatever gods may be listening that you don’t die of being embarrassed by your ridiculous inability to deal with shit. “What if we don’t pail right now?” you say, after steeling yourself to not mumble or stammer because pailing is definitely just no big deal.

Dualscar is silent for long enough that you have pretty much accepted that you’ve completely ruined this matespritship by being a complete and utter grub about pailing. Then he says, “Cod, that’s it? I thought you were goin’ ta tell me you were runnin’ off with Psi ta raise grubs for Dol or somefin.”

“What,” you say flatly.

“Whale, Dol likes grubs,” he says, as if that explains everything. “She could imagine a few up if she wanted ta.”

“That’s not even the beginning of the problems there are in that statement,” you say. You are prepared to go on and list them all in great detail, but Dualscar tips backwards, taking you with him. Your cape-blanket is now irrevocably lost, given that he doesn’t seem about to let you up to grab it from where it fell at your feet. “What-”

Dualscar silences you with a short, totally-boundaries-respecting, not-even-a-little-tongue kiss. “You fin too much. Stop it.” He nudges you until you move over, then stacks up cushions in front of his screen. “You want ta watch in which three psionics an’ two purples-”

You cut him off before he can go through the entire title, and then start on the second option’s. “Whichever.”

He shrugs and starts playing a movie, then wriggles into the cushion pile behind you, your back against his chest. He slings one arm over your waist and makes you lift your head so he can put his other arm under it, and you nudge one of your legs between his.

Halfway through the movie, you reach a silent compromise when you roll over and kiss him. You’re too busy making out with your matesprit to see the end of the movie, but you’re okay with that.


End file.
